


Arranged

by NorthernLights37



Series: Arranged [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Canon Divergent, Character Death, Exile across the Narrow Sea, F/M, Fluff, I don't know if it's really a story by me if I don't at least mention sex, Just Jon and Dany tho, Just playing with George's toys again, Loss of Virginity, Lyanna survives the Tower of Joy, Rhaella lives, Romance, Targaryens doing Targaryen stuff like boning each other, don't mind me, dragon hatching, of course, sexuals, slight angst, this is not that kind of fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:00:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23006905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernLights37/pseuds/NorthernLights37
Summary: All roads eventually lead to the same destination.  Two mothers live, and the journey forward happens very differently.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: Arranged [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1837000
Comments: 101
Kudos: 755





	Arranged

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QuietlyAnonForThis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuietlyAnonForThis/gifts).



> This is unbeta-ed. I have zero doubt that there are lots of mistakes. But, I'm working on several different fics, right now, and needed to get this idea out of my head, so here you go :)
> 
> Also, this one really isn't that deep, just wanted to put a very heavily book-leaning Jon and Dany in a situation where they don't grow up without their mothers. If you liked it, hey, hit me up, let me know. Kudos are as good as comments, I am not a picky bitch. If you didn't like it, you must be a monster. That's okay, too. 
> 
> Extra-specially dedicated to my very best mom-friend, who adores Book Dany and Jon as much as I do. Read, then BACK TO THE SOMETHING STUPID DANY POV MINES, WHERE I WILL BE WAITING, MA'AM!

  
Daenerys is sitting with her mother, trying desperately to pretend she has a modicum of interest in the delicate stitchery set before her, when the raven is brought in.

The windows of the room in this great manse are wide open, as they tended to be most days; In Pentos, there is always a breeze, wafting in from the sea, and it stirs the silver curls of her mother’s hair as her eyes scan the words etched into the small, unrolled scroll.

Nothing seems amiss, at first, but then she sees the way her mother’s hands begin to tremble. Amethyst eyes fly to meet hers, above the scrap of parchment, and Daenerys can see that they are wet with unshed tears. At first, she wonders if something terrible has happened; That would not be so very unexpected, if it had. Her life has been full of terrible things, for as long as she can remember.

But then, she sees that her mother is smiling, and she wonders at the beauty of it. Many say that Rhaella Targaryen is the most beautiful woman in all the realms, a classic Valyrian, with her long silver hair and fine features, her skin still smooth and unblemished though time has marched ever forward.

Daenerys has never really known if this is true, but now she sees it. This is the first time, for some time indeed, that she has seen real happiness on her mother’s face.

Rhaella says nothing, her embroidery discarded on her lap, forgotten, and spends long moments reading the scroll tucked into her shaking fingers. Again, and again, her eyes pass over each word, her mother’s breath coming so quickly by the end that she wonders if the woman will faint.

It is Ser Barristan that finally breaks the silence. “Your Grace? Is something wrong?”

Her mother shakes her head, firmly, and motions for the white-haired knight to come close, hands him the scroll and waits for him to know what she knows. When the old knight has a very similar reaction, Daenerys allows for a small, quivering hope to pierce her heart.

She holds out a hand, expectant, certain her mother will gladly share the news of such a fortunate turn of events with the only child remaining to her, but she does not.

Instead, the scroll is tucked neatly away, inside her mother’s gown, and the two leave, whispering heatedly to each other, just out of earshot. Daenerys knows what this means.

It’s always the same, when they are about to leave.

They never stay anywhere for long; They have been guests of Illyrio Mopatis for five moons now, but before that was a merchant in Lys, then a priestess in Volantis, and before that was Braavos. She shudders in remembrance. Braavos was when everything had gone from bad to worse. Braavos was where Viserys took ill and died, as her mother cried and clung to her dead son. Braavos was where her mother had sold her crown, the last thing of value they had left to them.

The hope she’d felt is extinguished, and instead she is gripped by fear, but then Rhaella returns. She crosses, quickly, her thin skirts swishing and then she is there, holding Daenerys tightly, her arms wrapped around her daughter’s shoulders and a comforting whisper in her ear.

“Everything is going to be well, now, sweetling.” A hand brushes back the lock of hair that has fallen over Dany’s forehead, and she meets her mother’s eyes, sees that for once, she thinks that her mother actually believes what she is saying. “I swear it.”

Then her mother begins to cry, softly, even as she smiles, and Daenerys is more confused than she has ever been.

They leave, quickly and quietly, the following morning.

\-----------

Once, Daenerys knows, her mother was a Queen. A true Queen, of a place called Westeros, thousands of miles away, across the Narrow Sea. She’d had a husband, and sons, and a kingdom to rule.

Once, her family had commanded dragons, real ones, not just the sort she read about relentlessly in books she’d managed to pilfer and scrounge up over the years. Sometimes, they stayed in places that had wonderful libraries, and she could spend days lost in the words on the pages, forgetting about everything and immersing herself in what had once been.

Being a Queen had not saved her mother from misery, or sorrow, or pain. And having dragons had not saved the Targaryens from near extinction. These are things she knows for certain.

Her father had been a terrible man. She has heard the tales, from her mother, and from Ser Barristan, and she has often found herself glad that he died before she was born.

She does mourn that she never knew her eldest brother, the one named Rhaegar. For when Barristan speaks of him, it is with admiration, and respect, and no small measure of grief, because the knight believes he would have been a good King, perhaps a great one.

But Rhaegar had died, as well, for love, a love that had cost him everything, and torn everything apart.

Her mother doesn’t speak of Rhaegar, ever. Daenerys has come to understand, now, at sixteen, the things she did not when she was a small girl. It is to difficult for Rhaella to speak of her oldest child, because she loved him so very much. He was her first babe, the one she’d held close the longest, and the loss of him has wounded her in a way that might never be healed.

Daenerys is her last, and the only that still draws breath, and she knows that her mother’s love for her is true.

But she also knows that she lives in the shadows of those who came before her, and for as long as she can remember, she has sworn to herself that she will be more.

They area fortnight into their journey, in an old carriage pulled by a lone horse, with Barristan at the reins. Every day the old knight cracks his whip and pushes the big black horse that moves them along onward, and Rhaella finally tells Daenerys where they are going.

Meereen.

She has read books, seen pictures in tomes with dusty, cracked spines, of the great pyramids, and excitement fills her breast until she learns that they will not venture into the city, proper.

Not yet.

They are going, Rhaella says, to meet the man Daenerys will marry.

She is not sure how she feels about this. It is not the first time her mother has entertained the notion, and Daenerys has come to accept that marriage is a necessary thing, though she had hoped, foolishly, that her mother might give her a gift she had not received, herself: choice.

However, this time, unlike the others, her mother shows no trepidation. She delivers the new firmly, with such assurance that Daenerys must think that the decision is already made, and she has two moons to come to terms with her lot in life.

In the night, when they sleep inside their rickety carriage, and she is cuddled against her mother and covered by a thin, roughspun blanket that is shared between the two, she hopes for kindness from her betrothed, but she does not expect it.

She trusts, with what remains of the blind, childlike trust that lives between parent and child, that her mother has chosen wisely.

Days before they arrive at their destination, her mother begins to speak, of things she has never shared with Daenerys before.

She speaks of Rhaegar, and Daenerys learns many things of the brother who died before she ever drew breath.

She learns that, perhaps, she is very much like her eldest brother. He loved to read, her mother divulges, with a wistful glint in her eye, would devour books with the same ferocious hunger that lived within Dany’s own heart.

He had a calmness about his nature, but could be stirred to anger, if provoked. Dany ducks her head at this, knowing she has had her own fits of temper, at times, though she hopes she has outgrown them. Rhaella hooks a finger under her chin, then, and smiles at her fondly. “’Tis our dragon blood, sweetling, and it burns within us all.”

He was kind, her mother says, in possession of a good heart, though he tended towards melancholy, more often than not. Daenerys does not wish to be sad; Life has simply made her that way, and she wonders if it was such for Rhaegar as well.

Unlike her, though, Rhaegar was a man grown. He had a wife, and children, and they are all, sadly, as dead as her brother. She grasps, now, how deep this tragedy has etched itself on her mother’s heart, when she speaks of the little ones, Rhaenys and Aegon, and the horror of how their lives were brought to an end.

Her mother also speaks of how fiercely her brother loved; She tells a tragic tale of love, and betrayal, of the horrors Daenerys’s father committed, of a Northern girl who stole noble Rhaegar’s heart and brought about the downfall of their family.

That night, she allows herself a fanciful thought, wonders as she stares at the crescent moon above what might have been, had her brother survived. Perhaps she would not find herself betrothed to a stranger, but to her kind brother’s son, instead. She thinks on it for hours before she kills the notion away, knowing it is no good, to dwell on things that are not and cannot be.

And then, the day before they arrive, her mother tells her a great secret, one that makes her eyes misty and wet. She pulls that coveted scroll from her sleeve, and gives it to Daenerys.

_To the True Queen of Westeros,_

_I write in time of great, and terrible need. For while news that you live, and your sweet daughter as well, fills my broken heart with great joy, I fear I will not tarry in such state much longer. I must ask that you come to me, as quick as you are able, if you are able. For in my house, I shelter a boy, whose blood you share, a husband for your daughter, trueborn and noble, a lost little prince for your princess. Rhaella, I beg you, for Rhaegar’s sake, come to me. You will know I speak truly when you see him. For though he has no silver hair, nor purple eyes, it is his father’s heart that beats in his chest. Let us band together now, while time remains._

_Yours most fervently,_

_Lady Lyanna Stark_

Her heart is racing, as she meets her mother’s eyes, shock washing over her in waves as she feels her eyes grow large, sucking in several breaths before she can speak.

“What does this mean, Mother?” The rest remains unspoken, for surely Rhaella understands her intent. What does this mean for their family? For their future?

“It is a miracle I dared not hope for, my sweet Dany.” Her mother’s hands are soft, as she cups her cheeks, and she watches as one tear travels down to drip from her mother’s chin. “The answer to our prayers.” She leans in close, as though she means to impart some great and wonderful secret. “The dragon must have three heads,” her mother intones, and what she intends is clear enough.

There is a small trunk, at their feet, and in this trunk are items most precious and rare.

She realizes that her brother’s Northern love has harbored her own secret, far from home, on these very shores.

And the fear that had gripped her heart, at the prospect of wedding a stranger, begins to abate, just a bit.

She is still afraid, but it is the unknown that stirs such within her. Because coupled with her fear is a dawning sense of hope reborn.

They are not the last, of House Targaryen. There is another, on the morrow Daenerys will meet him.

That night, for a change, her dreams are sweet.

\----------

The place they come to is more like a small farm, a homestead at least an hour’s ride from the port city, and Daenerys is glad to be free of the carriage as she climbs down, Ser Barristan taking her hand and helping her out and then doing the same for her mother.

She looks around, squinting in the bright light of day, the only sounds the nickering of their tired mare and the sound of the wind making the branches of the trees sway.

It is peaceful here, and it makes her smile, but then she is startled by a loud shout, near the door of the house. It is a short, squat thing, but large enough that she guesses there are several rooms within, smoke billowing from a chimney stack though the day is warm.

Two men emerge, their hair close cropped, their skins deeply tanned from the sun, and she notices, startled, that they both don old, battered armor. As they come nearer, she sees what is emblazoned on the chest: the Targaryen sigil, the three-headed dragon.

She is stirred by the look of joy on Ser Barristan’s face, as he strides ahead, greeting the men like old friends, a hasty grasping of forearms before propriety is discarded altogether and the three embrace.

Daenerys stays at her mother’s side, suddenly unsure.

But Rhaella, so long in exile, has remembered what it is to be a Queen, she thinks, and the smooth gliding gait she adopts as they finally approach is so regal that she feels a bit stunned.

In Braavos, they taunted her mother, called her the Beggar Queen, but now, Daenerys thinks, pride coursing through her, she sees the dragon beneath.

The two men, in their old armor, stare at her mother in awe, and then in a flash they skin their steel. Daenerys feels real terror, for a heartbeat, but then both men kneel, the tips of their swords planted in the dirt at their feet, their heads bowed in deference. “Your Grace,” they chorus together, reverently.

She looks to her mother, sees the beautiful smile that is given both men. “Rise, Sers,” her mother says graciously, and then, just as Barristan did, she moves to embrace them both. “Gerold,” she says, her voice thick with emotion, “Arthur. How it heals my heart, to see you both again.”

“My Queen,” says the one her mother addressed as Gerold, ‘You’ve come in the nick of time.”

Their smiles fall away as they look toward the dark interior of the house, then back to her mother. Daenerys understands, with a start, that they speak of the one who sent the raven, the Lady Lyanna, and realizes the situation is a grave one.

“Take me to her,” Rhaella orders gently, and the men obey, giving Dany a quick dip of the chin and a kind smile before they are escorted inside.

There is no finery in this home, but it is neatly kept, farming implenets stacked along one wall, a hearth carved into the wall, with a cooktop affixed, the wooden floors swept and clear around a large rectangular table that serves as their kitchen. She sees a basin, and buckets, and herbs left hanging to dry in the window, and she marvels that of all the places she has been, this is the first that feels like a home.

There are mismatched chairs scattered here and there, and a small shelf of books; She even spies a trunk, upon which is carved the profile of a howling wolf. This is the Stark sigil, Daenerys knows, for they are wolves just as she is a dragon.

Together they move, single file, down a short, narrow hallway, to the door at the end.

When the one called Arthur opens the door, Daenerys thinks she can smell it.

Sickness.

Death.

It is near, and she shivers, gladly taking her mother’s hand as she is pulled into the room.

The men stay outside, but Daenerys can no longer pay them any mind. Her attention is trained only on the woman laid upon the bed, her dark hair limp and hanging, her face sallow and wan and sunken. This woman is dying, and she feels sadness seep in at the edges of her mind.

This is the woman her brother sacrificed everything for, the one he loved above all others, and Daenerys is fascinated by drinking in every inch of her. She is not much longer for this world, but Dany thinks she can see, easily enough, what she had been before illness had wreaked it’s havoc upon her.

She must have been a great beauty, Dany thinks, the hair now dull no doubt full and shining, raven locks and fair skin, a wildness to her that reminds Daenerys of forests and mountain peaks and untamed wilderness.

Then, she sees him.

In the corner, filling a small basic with water, is a boy.

No, she thinks as he turns to face them, not a boy. Not quite a man yet, perhaps, but he is lean, and strong, and she can see the muscles in his arms through the thin tunic he wears. He stares at them, surprised, obviously not expecting to find two silver-haired Targaryens there, when his mother speaks.

“You came,” she croaks, and though it seems a struggle, she smiles. “Thank the Old Gods and the New.”

A sob escapes Rhaella, and she rushes across the room, and though they are both clad in the only finery they own, her mother cares not. She kneels at the woman’s beside, takes a limp hand in hers, and begins to weep.

“No,” Rhaella says brokenly, “curse them, that they would take you now. Oh, my dear girl,” her mother says, and lays her hand now upon the woman’s brow. “Oh, curse them all!”

Lyanna Stark raises a weak hand, and twines it in the silver hair that hangs over Rhaella’s shoulder. “Silver,” she whispers, her voice full of wonder.

Daenerys can feel eyes upon her, and she looks away from the two women to see the boy staring at her. He looks away, shyly, flushing at being caught, fumbling with the basin in his hand before shuffling to the bed.

“Mother,” he says, rushing to her side when the woman begins to cough. He is so careful, gently helping her sit upright, raising a tumbler of water to her mouth and helping her sip until she settles. Rhaella moves aside, as Dany hangs back, simply watching things unfold, watching as the one she has been told she will marry cares for his lady mother. He wipes at her brow with a wet cloth, and whispers to her comfortingly, and the sweetness of it pulls at her heart, makes tears spring up in her eyes.

She cannot imagine what it must be like, for him. She begins to feel something, in the pit of her stomach, in the deepest hollow of her chest, something that starts to fill her with an unknown need. She feels a pull to him, though they have just met, not even been introduced properly. He is not much older than she is, that she can tell, and she wonders if he has suffered as she has.

She wants to know him, she thinks, and her own shyness rises when he finally stands and glances at her once more, as he goes to refill the basin and wring out the cloth.

\----------

The first time she is alone with him, there is an awkward silence that seems to last for an eternity. She does not know if he is aware of their betrothal, that his mother made her wishes known from her deathbed, if this is the cause of his nervous glances and twitching hands.

They are riding down a tree-lined lane, past the field beyond the house, each on dappled mares that move steadily along. She thinks, with some amusement, that he’s said more to his horse than he has to her, and she isn’t sure why, but she finds him thoroughly intriguing.

“My mother is dying,” he finally says, in a voice so low and grim that she can almost taste his sadness.

“I know. I’m sorry,” she responds. “She seems a lovely woman.”

He is called Jon. This is not his proper name, his Targaryen name, but it is the only name he has ever used, and so this is the name they call him. When they wed, if they wed, it will be the joining of Jaeherys and Daenerys of House Targaryen, but for now they remain as they are, Jon and Dany.

Jon swallows hard, and spares her steady look, gray eyes boring into hers. “She is,” he says, his mouth turned down. “But some days,” he trails off for a moment, looking away, into the distance. “Some days I wish it would come. It is worse, on those days, to see her suffer.” He hangs his head, and she can see shame coloring his cheeks.

“When my brother Viserys died,” Dany says, haltingly, not even knowing why she speaks, just knowing he has shared something intimate with her, and now he is ashamed, and she wants to comfort him, “I never spoke it aloud, but it was a blessing, I think.” She feels his curious stare, but looks down the mane of her horse, as it ripples in the wind. “My mother was growing afraid of him. I think,” she stutters, wondering if she dares to speak her thoughts, hoping he will never repeat it, “she saw the madness in him. My father’s madness.”

Finally, she peeks at him, to find him watching her with something akin to understanding. He says nothing, but gives her a timid smile, one laced with sadness. They ride onward, but now, she thinks, the silence between them is not so awkward at all.

\----------

Her mother tells her, after a moon on the Meereenese farm, that they will stay, until the Lady Lyanna is gone.

Daenerys is glad. She feels as though they have been running forever, and it is nice, to be surrounded by people she can trust. This little home feels more welcoming than any she’s ever experienced, and they settle into a rather pastoral routine fairly quickly.

She will enjoy such peace while she can, because even she can see that Jon’s mother is fading, and quickly.

She knows, one day, that he has been told what will come next, because he avoids her, doesn’t speak as she joins him in the small barn to milk the cow and tend the goats. He averts his eyes as they gather eggs, as she carries them in a wide basket tucked under one arm, trailing behind him like a lost little pup. She begins to feel pathetic, as though she is talking to herself, because no matter what attempts she makes at conversation, he does not respond.

Finally, that night, after they have eaten, and Lyanna has been tended, she lets herself out the door, rounding the house to sit upon a square bale of prickly hay in a plain, unadorned gown she has borrowed from the woman who lays dying.

She stares at the stars, and wonders if it is so awful to him, the idea of marrying her. Her only comfort is the barn cat that comes, a sturdy tabby who rubs against her bare legs before jumping into her lap, and his deep, pleased purr rumbles against her skin.

“Dany.” He is walking towards her, stopping short at the sight of her perched alongside the house, and she can’t help the way she enjoys the sound of her name, roughened in his deep burr. It is a curious thing, but she thinks she understands it. Jon has never stepped foot on Northern soil, but he learned to speak at his mother’s side, and though his accent is less heavy, it is still noticeably there.

She stands, smoothing out her skirts primly, the affront she has felt all day suddenly rising to the surface. “I shall leave you to your brooding,” she says curtly, but a warm hand on her arm stops her as she turns to leave.

“Sit,” he urges, and she wants to say no, but he is so beautiful, in the moonlight, that she cannot resist him. But she does not give in right away, setting her jaw stubbornly and giving him a hard stare until he speaks again. “Please.”

She obeys, but she is feeling stubborn, and she does not look at him as he settles beside her, his trouser-clad hip just brushing against hers. He leans his back against the wall, and she does the same, and finally, with a heavy sigh, he starts.

“My mother tells me she wishes for us to marry.” He sounds so gloomy at the prospect that she can’t help the insult she feels, but before she can bid him goodnight he speaks again. “But she tells me your mother leaves the choice to you.”

This steals her breath, and her head whips around, silver strands flying as they hang past her shoulders, to stare at him. “That is news to me, I must say.”

His eyes glitter in the dim light, and she cannot read his expression now. “All day, I have thought on this, and there is something I simply cannot understand. I know how to farm,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck, “and I am a fair fighter, but your mother speaks of far greater things that are meant to be done, as does mine.” He shrugs, frowning, watching her closely. “Surely there are better choices than me.” He shakes his head, letting out a humorless laugh. “I haven’t got the first inkling about how to be a King. I’m not even sure I want to, to be honest.”

She thinks, as the moon shines down on them, that this is what enamors her so about Jon. He does not brag, nor boast, but she knows he is a far sight better with a blade than he credits himself. She has seen him training with the men she has since learned were his father’s Kingsguard, his steel flashing in the sun, and knows that if he wishes it he could leave these shores and live a warrior’s life.

But he is quiet, and he is kind, and he is the only man she’s ever met that she is not afraid of.

His doubts, she realizes, are her own, as well.

She was never raised in fine Keeps, has only ever had a few fine things, has spent more of her life begging for scraps than dining in grand halls. She doesn’t know how to be a Queen, and like him, she isn’t even really sure how she ought to go about being one, when the time comes.

They are alike, she thinks, and so she smiles, softly, and takes his work-roughened hand in hers. “May I show you something?”

He stares at their joined hands for several seconds, before he nods. “Alright,” he agrees, sounding a bit winded, and she pulls him along behind her to the barn, where she knows Barristan has hidden their great treasure.

Jon lights a lantern, and in the small orange halo he follows her, kneels beside her before the small trunk. She throws open the latch, and looks at him, wonders if he knows what lies within.

“Are those,” he breathes out, his eyes so wide with wonder that it makes her giggle, as his words falter.

“Dragon eggs,” she finishes, nodding and letting her palm rest atop the cold, scaly surface of the red. “Three dragon eggs, Jon, for three dragons.”

When her true intent sinks in, he rocks back on his heels, gaping at her then staring at the precious relics of their family’s past. He reaches shaking fingers to the green, letting the tips trail across before he snatches his hand away. Then he sits, and he thinks. She fancies she can see his mind working, his teeth grinding together, the muscle in his jaw ticking just under his cheek.

His eyes are on her once more, and she isn’t sure she’s ever seen him look so serious. “And you want to do this? To wed yourself to me?”

He normally looks rather stern, almost gruff, but now he seems a jittery bundle of nerves, sucking in a breath as he waits for her answer.

That he has asked her at all, seals it in her mind, and her heart.

Her mother was right, this she knows, as she considers him. He is a miracle, for he is everything she might’ve wished for, and unlike her dreams, he is real, and he is before her, and he can be *hers*.

“Yes,” she says, nodding slightly, and reaches forward to lace their fingers together again. “I would like that very much, I think.”

Jon is stoic, for a moment, just breathing, and then, he smiles. It is a sight so lovely that she wishes to see it, over and over, as much as can be managed in one so melancholy. Then he reaches for her, pulls her against his chest, until they are flush, knee to knee in the dirt.

He kisses her, tentatively, brushing full lips against hers, and she is swept away, the world shifting beneath her. She only ever wishes to kiss him, for the rest of her days, and so she leans in, returning the favor, teasing her mouth against his until he claims her more fully.

When he pulls back, breathless, eyes glazed with heady desire, she knows she would let him bed her here, in this old barn, if he wished it.

But he stands, instead, holding out a hand to help her up, as he catches his breath. “We should go,” he whispers, reaching for the lantern. “They’ll be looking for us.”

Dany knows he is right, and she knows it is wise to spare them both the mortification of being discovered by their guards, or worse yet, her mother.

But as he joins their hands again, a ghost of a smile crossing his lips, she wants, in a way she never has before.

\-----------

The day Lady Lyanna dies is a terrible one.

The skies above have opened up, as though the heavens weep with them, and she does not know what to do for Jon, how to comfort him.

His mother had not awakened that morning, and there is a grief that almost chokes the air from her lungs that settles over their company, no eye dry as they mourn, as one.

Jon shuts himself in his mother’s room, and does not emerge, not for the entire day.

She grows angry, with Arthur, and Gerold, and Barristan, when they urge her not to disturb him.

“He must eat, Sers!” Her voice sounds shrill, even to her own ears, as they eat a paltry meal. She has no appetite, doubts Jon will either, but she forces the food down all the same.

“Daenerys,” her mother chides softly. “He has suffered a great loss. We must let him grieve. We must give him space.” Perhaps there is wisdom, to Rhaella’s words, but all Daenerys can do is picture him in there, alone, shut away with his mother’s lifeless body, suffering.

She takes a hard end of bread, and a lump of cheese, a few strips of dried meat, and sets them upon a plate. When she looks about the room, she fixes each person she sees with a hard gaze. “That doesn’t mean he must grieve alone, Mother,” she finally spits out, and she marches with purpose down the narrow hall, forcing her hand to the door latch before she can think better of it.

Lyanna’s body has been covered with a thin sheet, and she acknowledges to herself that she is glad for it, unsure if she was truly prepared to see the woman in her final sleep.

Jon is not near the bed, not near his mother’s side at all. He sits opposite her, curled in on himself, staring blankly, nearly catatonic. He does not look up as she enters, and she wonders if he even knows she is there. He is lost, she sees, and she cannot bear to leave him alone in his misery for another second.

She whispers his name, once, and then again, and again, until his blank stare finds her.

He is empty, devoid of any thought or emotion, just a shell, a husk, of the Jon she has come to know.

She does not speak again.

Instead, Dany lowers herself to the floor, facing him, and wraps her slim arms around him, tucking his head into her neck.

She does not speak, but she holds him tightly, though he remains stiff in her embrace.

She does not know how long it continues, but eventually, he begins to relax, in degrees.

She can feel his lashes flutter against her neck, and she presses kisses to his wild black curls softly as she finally feels a hot, wet drop hit her skin.

He trembles, and shakes, and then he is wracked by great, heaving sobs that rock them both.

But Dany doesn’t move, does not relent.

She holds him, and smooths her hands down his back, along his neck, his pain escaping in a rush now as the walls he has built finally break.

She welcomes it.

If they are to be man and wife, she will not have him hide from her. Pain hidden festers, and grows, becomes a terrible force that breeds nothing but more misery in its wake.

Dany rocks him, every so gently, her eyes closing in relief when he finally wraps his arms around her in turn.

The sun has gone down fully, by the time he is done, and he is exhausted and sagging in her arms. He looks up at her, not a man, for a moment, but a boy, still, hurt and alone. She leans down, and presses a kiss to his brow, and his face twists in anguish. “Who will love me now? Now that she is gone? She was all I ever had, the only one who cared for me.”

She feels wetness pool in her own eyes, and hugs him tighter to her. “I will. I swear it.” He buries his head against her, again, and she feels his sigh in the gust of hot air that hits her. “And I will never leave you. Never.”

It is an oath she swears to them both, because it is just nearly two moons now, that she has known him, but she does not want to be without him. She is drawn to him by an unseen force, the rightness of him a sense that she feels to the marrow of her bones. He is meant for her, and her alone, and she for him.

He nods, as though he accepts her vow, and holds her so tightly that she thinks she will struggle to breathe. She does not mind in the slightest.

\------------

A fortnight later, they leave the small farm, and Rhaella tells them they will travel to Volantis.

Neither Jon nor Daenerys know why, exactly, but they have become so lost in each other that it does not much matter.

Arthur and Gerold have come with them, and ride ahead on horses of their own, but unlike the journey before, Dany is not cloistered away in the stuffy carriage house.

Most days, as they ride, headed for the nearest port, she and Jon are at the reins, sharing hushed conversations and stealing kisses when they are sure they are not being watched. It is silly, she knows, as there is no reason to act with such stealth, but it feels very private, what is growing between them, and she wishes to cling to that as long as she can.

They share their secrets, as the narrow bench set before the carriage shimmies and shakes beneath them, and she finds that the more she learns, the more she yearns for him. When the sea comes into view, she is relieved, because soon they will be aboard a ship, and perhaps then she can truly catch him alone.

All too soon, she realizes, as they spend the last of their gold on passage to Volantis, that her mother does not intend for her to room alone, and Rhaella seems fairly amused at Dany’s distress.

“Soon enough, you shall get your wish,” she cautions her daughter, their first night in the small cabin they will share. “There are thing we must speak of, first, things a wife ought to know before she weds.”

Dany’s cheeks burn as, night after night, her mother explains all manner of ways in which she might love her husband, thoughts that taunt her in the day and make her picture the most shameful images in her mind when she spies Jon breaking his fast across from her.

She wonders, when the tips of his ears turn pink, after an afternoon spent with the trio of knights, if they have been telling him much of the same.

By the time they reach Volantis desire has coiled tight in her gut, a viper ready to strike, and she implores her mother to let them be wed, here, before another day goes by.

Rhaella simply smiles. “Patience, child,” she says, but she can hear the latent understanding in her mother’s gentle admonishment. “Not much longer now.”

\-----------

For three days and three nights they are ordered to fast, the last three Targaryens, and so they do, as R’hllor’s red-robed servants hover around them.

Some simply stare, mouths agape, as though the Valyrians are gods that walk amongst them. Others are more taken with the trio of dragon eggs that accompany them, the acolytes taking turns tending to them as they are placed on a great fire that burns at the heart of the main temple.

Dany’s dreams turn strange, full of fire and ash, and salt and smoke, but each ends the same way.

She steps into the fire, and into R’hllor’s burning embrace, and she feels the skin of her back stretch and pull and tear, great wings sprouting as she screams.

They terrify her and excite her, both at once, but she speaks of them only to Jon.

His dreams are different. He stands before a great wall of Ice, as an army of dead men advance on him, and then, he says, his voice heavy with wonder, she is there, on the back of a great black beast, and a great fire consumes their enemies.

If her mother dreams, she does not speak of it, but a peculiar hardness reaches those formerly soft eyes.

On the third night, they are led to the great, burning blaze, surrounded by a sea of red, and Dany knows what she must do.

Her mother tries to stop her, is held back by arms robed in scarlet, but that is not the case for Jon.

He knows, she thinks. He believes in her. He does not fear the flame, for he knows what she is.

_Daughter of fire._

She hears it, in the crackling flames, and she sets first one dainty foot, then another upon the great pyre.

And then, there is nothing, but fire and ash, and salt and smoke, for what seems an age.

She sits, and clutches the eggs close to her chest, and sings to them, heedless to the heat, mindless to the danger. She is unburnt.

When the fire finally burns away, and there is nothing but soot and cinder beneath her, she opens her eyes, feels the tiny claws that dig into her skin.

Every gaze is trained upon her as she stands on shaking legs, unsteady as a newborn colt, an arm reaching out, a hand steady, helping to keep her upright.

“Dany,” she hears, and she knows that it is Jon.

She looks to him, purple clashing with thundercloud gray, just as a small head peeks above her shoulder, a tiny screech piercing the oppressive quiet.

“Oh, Dany,” Jon repeats, as his eyes travel her body. Her clothes have burned away, but she is unblemished, save for the ash that coats her skin, and she is unashamed that she is bare before him. This is the truth of her, what she was born to be.

Another screech sounds, then another, and she smiles.

In her cupped hand, she holds the curled form of a small, green dragon. She raises it, so that Jon may see what lies in her grasp. “He is yours,” she says, and sees his breathtaking smile, the one she loves most.

Yes, she loves him, she knows that, now. And she can see, in his piercing stare, that he loves her, too.

“Daenerys,” comes another voice, and she finds her mother staring at her in awe.

In her other hand sits a dragon of cream and gold, and she presents it for her mother’s amazed inspection.

“This one is yours, Mother. Take him.”

A great cheer sounds, the servants of R’hllor rejoicing in what she has done, but Dany is not consumed by rapture, as they are. She strokes the head of the small black and scarlet beast perched on her shoulder, and wonders instead of what will come for them, once word spreads, as it surely will.

A red comet streaks the sky, the next night, and it is Barristan who tells her, in a grave voice, what it means.

“Dragons,” the old man whispers, “The red comet means the dragons have come again.”

\-----------

Five days afterwards, she is marching towards Jon, and the Septon who will wed them, as three small dragons screech and chirp from their newly built enclosure. She cannot see his face, for several heartbeats, her vision blurring with tears that are proof of her happiness.

He sniffs, and collects himself, and she does the same, and for several solemn moments they become who they must be, Jaeherys and Daenerys of that most noble House Targaryen, the last of the Dragons, the heirs to the Iron Throne.

They say their vows with the required formality, but their eyes are only meant for each other, and she means each word she speaks with a deep and abiding conviction that is mirrored Jon’s Northern burr.

Then, to her surprise, he discards propriety completely, taking her in his arms as soon as they are pronounced man and wife, and kisses her with a passion she knows he has kept tightly restrained. But now, they are past restraint, they are wed, and they do not bother with a feast, or any other manner of celebration.

Their hunger, on this night, will only be sated in their marriage bed.

They are escorted to chambers that they will share, while they linger in the temple of the Red God, and all too soon they are alone. Suddenly, enchantingly, her new husband’s shyness has returned, but she does not mind.

She can be bold enough for them both.

He stands beside the large bed, watching her as she approaches, a definite sway in her hips that makes her black, sheer gown flow about her ankles like water. She kicks off her silk slippers, letting her fingers wander the matching black of the tunic he wears. He had laughed, earlier, jesting that black was always his color, when they’d been presented with the items they would wear to be wed, but now, she cannot help but agree.

“Help me out of this gown, won’t you?”

That is the only invitation her young husband needs, she sees, shivering with excitement when he shifts to stand behind her, loosing the ties of the gown so that the fabric slips down her shoulder and sweeping her hair aside, raining hot, openmouthed kisses along her neck.

“Have you ever done this, Dany?” She can hear that he is still nervous, and she can admit to herself that she is, as well; For all her mother’s counsel she knows that there will be pain involved. But, she knows as well, that if he is gentle with her, in this first coupling, it will not be so terrible.

His hands begin to stroke at her waist, and she can feel his desire for her in the stiff hardness of him, pressed against her back, even through the layers they still wear.

“No,” she says, reaching for his hands and drawing them upward, to cup her breasts. She moans, as his hands explore, testing what will make her back arch and press further into him, his mouth now affixing and suckling at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. “There will only be you, for me.”

He likes this, she knows, from the guttural growl he releases at her words, his lips still firm against her flesh. Soon, he is working the fabric of her sheer gown to her waist, fingers fumbling with the sash that has cinched it in, and then she is rid of it completely.

Silk slithers down her body, and he turns her, and she is astonished by the wild desire that rages in his eyes. Where there was once a ring of steely gray, there is now only black, and then he takes her hands in his, pulling them to the hem of his tunic, asking without words that she disrobe him, as he did her.

She does so with relish, drinking in the sight of his muscled chest, the lean cut of his body, her hunger only growing as she rids him of his breeches and boots and sees the proof of his desire, flushed and rigid and straining upwards between them.

She has seen cocks before, of course, but never this close, and she runs a testing finger down his length as he groans. He sounds pained, and she looks up, but it is not anguish that contorts his face so. His teeth are clenched, breath hissing out between, and then he kisses her, his tongue now bravely twisting between her parted lips to slick and slide with her own.

Dany feels as though he is devouring her, and she clings to him, giving and taking in turn, her thighs turning as slick as her lips with want as she feels a gnawing hunger begin to build between her legs.

His hands roam her body freely, now, plucking at the hard peaks of her pink nipples, cupping her breasts and kneading them, before skating down her abdomen, which clenches at the contact. “On the bed,” he manages to gasp between heated kisses, and she backs her way onto the soft mattress with him in hot pursuit.

She braces herself for what will come, but he does not position himself between her thighs. Instead, his hands still wander, skirting lower and lower until he is probing the molten depths of her cunt, gentle but insistent, circling the bundle of nerves above her entrance then dipping inside her, testing and teasing and playing with intense and focused interest.

It is difficult to keep her eyes open, as pleasure builds and grows exponentially, but when he bends to place his mouth on her she cannot help but stare, even as a startled cry is ripped from her chest. She can feel him smile against her, his mouth following the same questing path as his fingers, and his dark eyes never leave her face. He is seeking what pleases her the most, she realizes, and she does not hold back in her lusty praise when he finds the spots that drive her to the point of madness.

Her back arches so sharply she wonders that it might snap, as he strokes two fingers inside her, as his tongue circles and slides against her clit, and stars bloom white and red behind her eyelids as they finally slam shut, and she is crashing over a cliff edge, falling into sensations she has never known. Her hips are twisting and writhing, in rippling waves, as she spasms against him, and it seems to last forever.

Finally, she collapses back, sticky with sweat, her limbs limp and trembling, and she feels his lips travel upwards, until their faces are even, his cock pressing hard as stone against her soft, wet flesh as he finally settles against her.

He brushes aside the silver strands that cling to her flushed cheeks, and gives her a tentative smile, so at odds with the depthless hunger in his eyes. “Was that alright?” Her eyes grow wide at his whispered question, and she can do nothing but nod emphatically as his smile becomes a wide, happy grin.

“Quite,” she whispers, and hugs him close, her thighs closing to squeeze against his hips as she thrusts against him. “Be gentle,” she urges, as he reaches between them, taking himself in hand, the round head of his cock aligning at her entrance.

“I will,” he promises, and she believes him, can feel the way each muscle trembles as he fights the urge to snap his hips against her, to thrust inside her with abandon. She winces, as he presses against her maidenhead, his mouth capturing hers in a filthy kiss as he pushes through, and for a long moment he is still, finally buried deep within her, his pelvis firmly seated against hers. The pain ebbs, more quickly than she expected, and is replaced by the growing need for him to *move*.

“I’m ready,” she whispers, and grips at his shoulders with her hands, slowly sliding down each of his biceps before her hands slip to his back. “Love me,” she urges, and circles her hips again.

“I do,” he says, and finally, blissfully, begins to thrust himself inside her. He is trying to control himself, she knows, for his own eyes are closed tight, now, his teeth gripping his bottom lip so tightly she wonders if he will draw blood. He keeps his movements shallow, and slow, but soon she wants more, and she locks her ankles around his hips, her heels digging into the small of his back to urge him onward.

“More,” she keens, her voice so wanton she hardly recognizes it, and his eyes fly open, his answering look so dark and hooded that she knows he has finally reached the limits of his restraint.

Soon, he is a beast, uncaged, their blood boiling and bursting in tandem, as they become wild thing, teeth snagging against flesh, hips grinding together, the wet sounds of their coupling filling the room and accented by their moans and cries as they lose themselves, together.

He thrusts himself deeply inside her, more forcefully with each rocking of his hips, and she can feel that burning, clawing crawl up her spine. She tenses, knows he can feel it as well, and then it is upon her, this release even sharper than before, and Jon is not far behind, as her cunt milks him in great, grasping waves that pull his seed from him. She can feel it, she marvels, the hot spill of him inside her, and she thinks that if there are truly any Gods, that they will let his babe take root inside of her.

More than anything, she hopes that they are not truly the last.

He rolls off her, gingerly, a wet, sticky trail in his wake, and collapses onto his back, a dazed grin upon his face as she pants and looks at him adoringly.

She is cold without his weight upon her, and she curls against his side as he shifts to draw the bed linens on top of them, kissing every part of her his mouth can reach.

“I love you,” he whispers, and it is the sweetest sound in the world.

\----------

They are learning, together, as their dragons grow, how to be husband and wife.

They are learning, together, as time slips by, how to be a King and Queen.

Rhaella tutors them daily, in a myriad of topics, some she knows already, and some in which Jon is equally well-versed.

By the time a year has gone by, her stomach is swelling, Jon’s babe growing inside her, and she has never known such happiness.

By the time a second year has passed, she has birthed a son. He is a babe of such beauty that she can scarce believe he is real, her little lad, as Jon calls him. They name him Torrhen, for with this babe they will bind the north to them, she thinks. Jon is a dragon, this is true, but he has the old blood as well, and Rhaella is convinced that their union will bring the stubborn North back into the fold, when the time comes.

People begin to flock to them, first a trickle, then a steady stream.

Emissaries arrive from Dorne, and the Reach, from the Riverlands and the Vale, and finally, from the North as well.

They hold audiences of the most secret nature, for when their dragons are large enough to ride they will defeat the Usurper Robert Baratheon once and for all, and the Lannisters as well. Her mother has told Jon of the fate of his half-siblings, and she glories at the fire in his eyes, when he speaks of how Lions will pay for the blood they have spilled.

Her husband has become more confident, more sure, and while he remains quiet, and stoic, and prone to his somber moods, he has changed, as well. He saves his doubts for their bed chambers, possessing a calm assurance, now that he is a husband, and father as well.

Jon tells her that he can see his path forward, now. He tells her that they will do whatever they must, to ensure their own safety, and that of her mother, and their sweet boy.

Finally, three years after they are wed, their dragons have grown large and fearsome. An army arrives, as they prepare to make their assault on Westeros, a sellsword company who has heard tell of the dragons and their masters, and come to see for themselves.

Fate has delivered an army to their shores, they find, an army full of those exiled after her brother’s death and her father’s defeat, and the Golden Company bends the knee to her mother in short order.

While it is true that Barristan and Gerold and Arthur offer their counsel and advice, it is Rhaella who charts their course, now.

Her mother, Dany knows, has changed as well. She dotes over little Torrhen, singing him sweet songs, and rocking him when he cries, treasuring each moment with the small family they have forged. But she has become harder, stronger, a steel in her rigid spine as she sits atop a gilded seat, in R’hllor’s temple. She is the matriarch, the true Queen of Westeros, and she makes it clear to all who ask that she will ride her dragon into battle when her throne is retaken.

Her cream beast is called Dawnbreaker, and he is a sweet and loving creature when in her mother’s presence, but remarkably short-tempered and quick to snap at any who stray to close.

Jon’s green dragon, a big, hulking creature the color of emeralds, is named Rhaegal, and on occasion she still sees tears rise in Rhaella’s eyes at the beast’s name. She is pleased beyond measure, Dany knows, that Jon honors his father in such a way, and is wont to dote on Jon just as she dotes on Dany’s son, until Jon has had his fill of her occasionally overbearing mothering.

Dany has named her dragon after the greatest in their family’s history, for since she laid eyes on the black creature she has known what he is. She calls him Balerion, for he is such, the Black Dread reborn, and there are none who dare approach her mount. It is fear and awe that is stirred in men’s hearts, when they see her most fearsome child, and she understands that this is necessary.

This is what Rhaella tells her, when Dany bemoans that people simply do not understand a dragon’s nature.

“They will never understand, truly, what it means to be a dragon, sweet daughter.” They stand beside their creatures as her mother speaks, the heat from those burning scales making the air between them shimmer. “Some will call us great, and some terrible. But if we mean to build a better world, they are necessary. We must be strong, if we wish to help those who cannot help themselves. And sometimes,” she says, stroking a hand along Dawnbreaker’s great snout, “strength is terrible.”

\-----------

They prepare to leave Volantis, for good, their armies already sailing for Westeros.

She is pressed against Jon’s side, in the bed they will share for the last time, his fingers trailing lazily up and down her spine as she nuzzles against his neck. He is tense, and she knows he worries, not just for her, but for the small boy who will ride with Dany atop Balerion.

“What troubles you?” At her quiet question, he tenses again, but his answer is not what she expects.

“I still don’t know how to be a King, you know.” He lets out a soundless laugh, his chest shaking, and she pushes up to look at him, braced on one arm, hair falling in great waves of silver at her side.

“Well,” she says, smiling, letting her free hand play long the defined muscles of his stomach. “I still don’t know how to be a Queen, not really.” She reaches for his hand, threads their fingers together, giving him a soft look that she hopes tells him of the love that dwells within her heart, a love she had not dared dream to feel before she met him. He is a part of her now; Her husband, the father of her child, the indefinable thing that fills all the empty holes in her soul. He makes her stronger than she has ever felt, and is the thing she dares not lose. “But do you know what I think?”

He gives her a playful frown, his face wrinkling in thought. “That you want another tumble in this nice, cozy bed before we find ourselves sleeping in tents and cots?”

She tips her head to the side, her hair tickling against his ribs as he laughs. “Well, yes, I certainly would.” But she sighs, and peers down at him, serious as she squeezes their joined hands. “I think we can sort it all out, together.” She emphasizes the last word, knowing he will hear her vow, her heart full as he makes one of his own in the silence that follows.

“Always,” he swears, and though she knows that tomorrow is not promised them, she believes him. She has dreamed of the life that awaits them, has whispered to him in the dark of the future that is theirs for the taking, of the dynasty they will build for their children, and their children’s children.

And he knows, just as she does, that she is no ordinary woman.

Her dreams come true.


End file.
